


Could Be Dangerous

by jaradel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 00:26:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaradel/pseuds/jaradel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John stole a glance at his flatmate. Sherlock’s features could have been carved out of granite; his mouth was set in a firm line, his brow was furrowed, and his eyes, focused resolutely on what was directly in front of him, had a tightness around the corners that John rarely saw after the successful completion of a case.</p><p>Well, <em>successful</em> might be stretching the definition a bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Could Be Dangerous

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Challenge 1 of Tumblr's Let's Write Sherlock. 
> 
> Unbeta'ed, all mistakes are mine. I also know nothing of medical procedures in A&E, so please don't crucify me for any inaccuracies there.

          The cab ride back to the flat was uncomfortable to say the least, and not just because John was nursing a gunshot wound on his left arm. Fortunately it was just a graze, but it had gone deep enough into the flesh to require several stitches, and his arm was now in a sling. John sat behind the driver, looking out the window; Sherlock was on the opposite side, as far away from John as he could get while still being inside the cab. John stole a glance at his flatmate. Sherlock’s features could have been carved out of granite; his mouth was set in a firm line, his brow was furrowed, and his eyes, focused resolutely on what was directly in front of him, had a tightness around the corners that John rarely saw after the successful completion of a case.

         Well, _successful_ might be stretching the definition a bit.

~~~

         It was a locked-room suicide at first glance. The victim, a professional woman in her early 30s, was engaged to be married the next month. She had been away on a business trip and was scheduled to arrive home the day before, but had never called her fiancé to let him know she was back in town, and when he’d come to her flat to check on her, the door was locked and no one responded. Lestrade and his team had been called to investigate, but as they processed the scene, they noticed some inconsistencies and called Sherlock and John for a second opinion. Sherlock, with John’s medical expertise, quickly deduced that the victim had been murdered, judging by the angle of the bullet wound and the bruising of the right hand, indicative of someone else having closed their own hand tightly around the victim’s while the gun was pressed to their temple.

         While Sherlock reeled off this deduction to Lestrade, John had noticed that the door to the airing cupboard was ajar. He opened it, and was immediately bowled over by the murderer, who ran out of the flat. Naturally, John and Sherlock had given chase, and cornered the suspect in a dead-end alley. The suspect had pulled a gun. John, acting on pure instinct and an ingrained response to anyone who dared threaten Sherlock’s life, had shoved Sherlock back and down onto the ground. He then charged the suspect, hoping that his quick reflexes coupled with the element of surprise would allow him to disarm the man before he could hurt anyone. Unfortunately he wasn’t quick enough – the suspect got off a lucky shot as John executed a flying side kick to the man’s solar plexus. The bullet tore through the left sleeve of John’s black shooting jacket, through the jumper and oxford shirt underneath, and carved a deep gash in John’s arm about two inches above his elbow.

         To John’s credit, he barely registered being shot as the suspect crumpled to the ground. He landed on top of the assailant, kicking the gun away in the process. John immediately shifted his weight so he was straddling the suspect, pinning him to the ground. Not that the suspect was in any condition to fight back; he’d likely have a black-and-blue print of John’s brogue in his gut for at least a week, and was having trouble catching his breath. As the adrenaline wore off, John felt a searing pain in his arm. Carefully peeling off his jacket, he saw the wound, the crimson blood staining the sleeve of his oatmeal jumper. At that point, Sherlock had come running up behind him, skidding to a halt when he saw John’s arm. Sherlock had acted quickly, unwinding his dark blue scarf from around his neck and wrapping it securely around John’s upper arm, where it acted as both a tourniquet and a makeshift bandage.

         After that, John’s memory of subsequent events was rather hazy. He remembered hearing sirens, Lestrade and Donovan shouting as they ran down the alley, and Sherlock hauling him to his feet and off of the suspect. He felt cold, the result of the absence of his jacket combined with the onset of shock. He was dimly aware of Sherlock’s arm wrapping around him, keeping him upright and providing him with warmth as they staggered awkwardly toward a waiting ambulance. He was helped onto a gurney, where paramedics began tending to his wound. The last thing he remembered before they arrived at hospital was a long, slim hand holding his tightly, and an indistinct murmuring of comforting words from a familiar baritone voice.

         John regained consciousness as they wheeled him into A&E. He looked around for Sherlock, but he was not in John's limited field of vision. Still too foggy to contemplate the whereabouts of his friend, John focused his attention on answering the questions posed to him by the doctor and nurse tending his wound. In short order he was stitched up, fitted with a sling, taken to a recovery room, and given IV fluids to replenish what he’d lost during the ordeal. After an hour he was discharged, and Sherlock was waiting for him outside the A&E, his expression cold and distant. Wordlessly he’d handed John his jacket and hailed a cab, ushering John inside before taking his seat and closing the door.

~~~

         After what felt like an eternity, given the subzero chill radiating off of Sherlock, but in actuality was only about twenty minutes, the cab pulled up in front of their flat. Sherlock quickly got out, leaving John to negotiate the fare – no mean feat with his dominant hand temporarily incapacitated. Finally he was able to extract the requisite amount of cash from his wallet, handed it to the driver, and climbed out of the cab. Sherlock hadn’t bothered to wait or even leave the door open for him, and John swore under his breath as he fumbled his keys in his right hand in an attempt to unlock the door. It was after two in the morning, and Mrs. Hudson had gone to bed hours ago, so John did his level best to quietly enter the building and walk upstairs to 221B. He thought about continuing up the stairs to his room and going to bed, but Sherlock’s icy silence had him worried, and he decided to check on him instead. Pushing open the sitting room door, he found Sherlock’s coat tossed carelessly over the desk, and his bloodstained scarf in a plastic bag on the floor, but no sign of his flatmate. The lights in the sitting room were off, but the kitchen light was on, so John shut and locked the sitting room door, clumsily hung his jacket (which would need the services of a tailor to repair the hole in the sleeve) on the coat rack, and wandered into the kitchen. He’d fully expected to see Sherlock at the table, working on an experiment, but the kitchen, like the sitting room, was empty. John walked past the refrigerator and into the back hallway. The door to the bathroom was closed, which was not unusual, but so was the door to Sherlock’s room.

 _That_ was unusual.

         John had been puzzled by Sherlock’s behaviour since he’d been discharged from A&E, and he got the distinct impression that he had angered him somehow. But John couldn’t for the life of him figure out what he’d done that was different from any other time they’d been on a case together. Their lives were far from safe; “could be dangerous” was their code for “sounds like fun,” but sometimes, the danger was real and tangible, like tonight. Both of them had landed in A&E a handful of times at the end of cases; more often than not, though, they’d end up at the kitchen table where John would tend to their injuries himself. Most of the time, they’d joke darkly about their injuries, a bit of gallows humour to offset the mutual worry. And yes, sometimes John would light into Sherlock about taking unnecessary chances, but Sherlock typically waved off John’s concern, and he had never yelled at John for the equally risky chances that John took in the name of protecting Sherlock. It’s what they did; it’s how they lived. Business as usual.

         John approached Sherlock’s door and knocked with a bit of trepidation. “Sherlock?” he called out. “You okay?”

         There was a bit of a pause. “I’m fine, John. Go to bed,” came the clipped reply.

         “Not really in the mood to sleep, to be honest,” John said, leaning against the closed door.

         “Well then find something else to occupy you. I’m not in the mood to be your entertainment right now.”

         John was taken aback. Sherlock almost never talked to him like that; usually it was John complaining that _he_ wasn’t there to provide entertainment for _Sherlock_. “Sherlock, seriously, what’s the matter? You don’t sound like yourself.”

         John nearly stumbled into Sherlock’s room as the door was wrenched open, and caught himself on the doorframe. He looked up at Sherlock, who wore an expression of barely contained fury. “I _said_ , I’m not in the mood, didn’t you hear me? Or did the bullet take out your hearing as well as a chunk of your arm?”

         Understanding dawned on John. “Is that what this is about? Sherlock, we do this all the time. 'Could be dangerous', remember? Why are you upset about it _now_?”

         “I. Don’t. Want. To. Discuss. This,” Sherlock said through clenched teeth, and attempted to shut the door in John’s face, but John was too quick, throwing his right shoulder against the door before Sherlock could latch it. The door ricocheted off of the wall, and Sherlock stumbled backward as John practically fell into the room.

         “What the ever-living _fuck_ is wrong with you?” John bit out.

         Sherlock huffed out his breath in frustration, clenching his fists at his sides. “What’s wrong with _me_? There’s nothing wrong with me, but clearly you’re missing a fair few brain cells because _you_ seem to think it’s perfectly sane and rational behaviour to charge a man holding a gun when you’re unarmed!” he roared.

         “Funny, you’ve never minded before,” John growled.

         “Well that was _before_ I threw myself off of a six-story building to protect my friends, and then spent three years of my life traveling the world to eradicate a criminal network, and I sure as _hell_ didn’t do that just so the _one_ person I care most about in this miserable world could get shot by some imbecilic waste of oxygen who was jealous that his ex-girlfriend was marrying another man!”

         It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. John felt rooted to the floor, shocked by Sherlock’s violent and emotional outburst. Sherlock, in contrast, was standing opposite John, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a race, his face red, pale eyes flashing, and fists still white-knuckled at his sides. John gaped at Sherlock – he couldn’t recall ever seeing Sherlock lose his temper like this,  not even when Moriarty’s net was closing around them, before – well, _before_. It had been six months since Sherlock had returned to John, and after he had gotten over his initial anger at Sherlock for lying to him and staying away for so long, and Sherlock had finally explained why it was necessary, they had slowly eased back into familiar habits. There were still moments of tension, though – and if John were truly honest, he’d acknowledge that he took his role as Sherlock’s protector even more seriously now than he had before. The one thing Sherlock _hadn’t_ done since his return was to show any deep emotion about the lengths he’d gone to protect John, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson. He had laid out his reasons logically, rationally; one life for three, knowing that he could very effectively fake his own death, and thereby put himself in the perfect position to rid the world of Moriarty’s network once and for all. No matter how much the deception hurt, no one could argue with Sherlock’s reasoning, but not once had Sherlock said that he did it because he _cared_ about them.

_The one person I care most about in this miserable world…_

         “You – you care about me?” John said weakly.

         Sherlock closed the distance between them and seized John by the shoulders. “Jesus Christ, John, do I have to explain everything to you? Do you honestly believe that I would have done what I did out of some societal obligation? I threw away _everything_ – my reputation, my career, my home, my _life_ – so that the only people I truly gave a damn about could live, and you’re the most important of all.” Sherlock’s voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. “Everyone else – even Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade – they tolerate me. They put up with me in small doses, but eventually they all run away when they’ve had enough. You don’t. You leave, but only for a little while, and you _always_ return. No matter how awful I am to you, you always come back.” Tears were forming now in Sherlock’s eyes, and he was fighting to keep his voice steady. ”The only thing that kept me going out there was knowing that you were alive, and I hoped – prayed – that you’d forgive me and take me back, that we could have our home and our life back, even if I never solved another case. And then it was over, and I came home, and even though you were angry you _did_ take me back. That was all I needed. Being allowed to solve cases again was an added bonus. But none of that matters – _none of it_ – if you’re going to be stupid and get yourself killed!”

         Time seemed to come to a halt as John and Sherlock gazed at each other. John could read the anguish in Sherlock’s face: three years of forced solitude, having abandoned everything and everyone important to him, wandering the earth like a ghost, doing God-knows-what to God-knows-whom, just to be able to come home. Just to be able to come back to John.

         Sherlock abruptly let go of John and backed away, the tears falling freely down his cheeks as he averted his eyes in shame. “I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered, and then in something more closely resembling his normal, dispassionate voice, he added, “Forgive me. I must be tired.” Sherlock crossed the room to the far side of his bed and sat down, his back to John and his spine ramrod straight. “I’m going to bed. Please close the door on your way out.”

         “No.”

         Sherlock turned to look at John, his gaze flinty in sharp contrast to the tear tracks on his cheeks. “What do you mean, ‘no’? This is my room. I’m asking you politely to _leave_.”

         John smiled softly. For someone so damn smart, Sherlock was clueless about matters of the heart. There was no way that John was going to walk away and leave his best friend alone after that naked confession. He slowly circled Sherlock’s bed and stopped directly in front of him, the toes of his brogues just millimetres away from Sherlock’s oxfords. Sherlock’s gaze had followed John as he walked, and he peered up owlishly at John, who reached out with his right hand and softly, gently, caressed Sherlock’s cheek.

         The change in Sherlock’s demeanor was instantaneous. The cold, haughty attitude fell away and he practically melted into John’s touch, letting out a shaky sigh. Two long, slender arms snaked their way around John’s waist, and he felt himself pulled forward between Sherlock’s knees as he buried his face in John’s stomach. John moved his hand into Sherlock’s hair, gently carding through the dark brown curls as Sherlock’s breathing became more ragged, turning into sobs.

         “Shh, Sherlock, it’s okay, I’m here, it’s just a scratch,” John said, murmuring soothing words in a gentle litany as he tried to calm his friend, who was clutching him like a buoy in a hurricane and sobbing uncontrollably. The last time John had heard Sherlock cry was that last phone conversation _before_ ; John couldn’t see him properly from that far away, but the sound over the phone was unmistakable. That was nothing compared to the sorrow he was witnessing now. John bent awkwardly at the waist, trying to hold Sherlock with one arm while keeping his other arm from accidentally whacking him in the head. Sherlock, for his part, hardly noticed; he clung to John until the sobs subsided, then dropped his arms from John's waist and wiped his face with his hands. John sat down on the bed next to Sherlock, and wrapped his good arm around him. 

         Sherlock rested his head on John’s shoulder, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself. “Thank you,” he said after several moments had passed.

         “For what?” John asked.

         “For – that. For not dying. For everything.”

         John smiled and pulled Sherlock more tightly to himself, turning his head and placing a gentle kiss in Sherlock’s curls, not really realizing what he had done until it had happened. He stiffened momentarily, worried that he’d ruined the moment, but Sherlock just sighed deeply and wrapped his arms around John’s waist, nuzzling into his neck, and John relaxed again. He didn’t know how long they sat like that, holding each other, but eventually he noticed that Sherlock’s breathing had become slower and deeper, and he felt almost boneless next to him.

         “Sherlock, you need rest. Time for bed.”

         Sherlock’s arms, which had loosened their hold on John’s waist, tightened momentarily as he mumbled something into John’s neck.

         “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” John murmured.

         Sherlock lifted his head fractionally off of John’s shoulder. “I said, not without you.”

         John turned his head and gazed into Sherlock’s pale eyes, seeing a softness there he’d never before seen directed at him. If he didn’t know better, he would say it was love.

         The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up. “Yes, it is, and yes, I do. Don’t be boring and make me actually _say_ it.”

         John grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he drawled. They gazed at each other for a second, before mutually closing the distance between them with a brush of their lips – a kiss so brief, so light and chaste that John wasn’t even sure it actually happened. Perhaps it was a figment of his imagination, he thought, but then their lips met again. Their second kiss was firmer, longer, but still chaste; an affirmation of their unique and lasting relationship, and a promise of so much more. Reluctantly they disengaged from each other; Sherlock briskly changed out of his now-wrinkled suit into a t-shirt and pajama bottoms while John fumbled one-handed with the laces on his shoes, blowing his breath out through his teeth in mild frustration.

         “Here, let me,” Sherlock said, kneeling at John’s feet. He gently removed John’s shoes and socks, and helped him out of his trousers. Then he raised up on his knees, so that his face was level with John’s, and very carefully removed the sling, laying it down on the bed at John’s hip. John sat quietly, gazing at Sherlock as he slowly removed John’s jumper and unbuttoned his shirt, gently working the fabric down John’s wounded arm before removing the garment and draping it across the foot of the bed. John felt more than a bit self-conscious sitting in front of Sherlock in nothing but a t-shirt and pants, but Sherlock seemed unfazed, focusing on John’s bandaged arm. Taking it into his long, slender hands, he carefully examined the dressing.

         “Does it hurt?” Sherlock asked softly, fingertips brushing over the gauze.

         “They gave me pain meds at the hospital, so it’s fine for now, but I’ll have to get the prescription filled in the morning,” John replied.

         Sherlock nodded, and helped John back into the sling. Between the case, the hospital, and the emotional revelations of the past thirty minutes or so, both men were thoroughly exhausted, so much so that even their nightly ablutions were skipped in favour of rest. Sherlock stood, offering his hand to John to help him up, which John gratefully accepted. Sherlock pulled the covers back and gestured for John to lie down. John crawled into the bed and turned onto his right side; Sherlock turned off the lamp on his bedside table and crawled in behind John, pulling the covers up over them both. Sherlock wrapped his long body around John’s smaller one, and snaked an arm around his waist. John settled back against Sherlock’s chest, all the tension of the evening melting away. They would talk about this sudden change in their relationship in the morning, establish expectations, boundaries, et cetera, but for now, John stopped thinking and just let himself enjoy the feeling of comfort and safety that he found most unexpectedly in Sherlock’s arms.

         As usual, Sherlock read John’s thoughts from his body language. “There’s nothing to discuss. My only expectation is that we will spend the rest of our lives together, if that is acceptable to you. Everything else we can figure out together as we go along,” he rumbled in John’s ear.

         “That works for me. Wasn’t planning on letting you out of my sight anyway,” John murmured, snuggling deeper into Sherlock’s embrace.

         “Mmm, same here. Goodnight, John,” Sherlock replied, placing a feather-light kiss on John’s temple.

         John yawned, and turned his head slightly to kiss Sherlock’s jaw. “’Night, Sherlock. Love you,” he sighed happily, closing his eyes.

         Just before John fell asleep, he heard Sherlock say the most beautiful thing in the world. “I love you too, John.”

**Author's Note:**

> The same story, from Sherlock's point of view - [And I Said Dangerous, And Here You Are](http://archiveofourown.org/works/864626).


End file.
